The Goth King of UW
by Alby Mangroves
Summary: Lazily, Garrett flicks his eyes over Edward's face like he's seeing the parts and calculating the sum. "I need your help with something." Edward knows his life will never be the same again. Edward/Garrett, AH, Romance.
1. Proposition

This story was written for the lovely Mostly A Lurker's fundraiser earlier this year, where a story collection raised funds for MaL and Leo's HEA. it was wonderful to be a part of it!

**Sincere Thanks** to LightStarDust for her Beta magic, to Conversed for her Slash authenticity pre-read and to LisaMichele17 for her UW/Seattle insider pre-read. Also, thanks to the lovely evieeden for making a banner to go with the story- you can find the link on my profile. Cheers, ladies!

**Disclaimer:** Apologies for liberties taken with the curriculum and student space at the SoA, UW. I do not own Twilight.

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**_March 1993, School of Art, University of Washington_**

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_Why can't I look away?_

_Just look away._

_Just fucking look away!_

Edward slides the bridge of his glasses up his nose and follows the compulsive gesture with another helpless glance.

Where's a drama student when you need one? They can usually be trusted to walk the halls in gaggles, bitching loudly, talking with their hands, being generally obnoxious and harnessing all the available attention while being all... dramatic.

Except when you need them.

With nothing going on to draw everyone's attention, Edward tries to be very circumspect in his perusal. He's James fucking Bond.

Half a world away at the end of Edward '007' Cullen's cagey stare, a black silhouette contrasts sharply from the bland orange brick wall he's leaning against.

Edward's eyes slide over the guy's usual wardrobe: black jeans so tight that they strain at the seams over his sinewy calves and thighs, scuffed black combat boots laced halfway up his shins with the lace-ends flapping around undone and a black leather coat so worn that it's almost second skin. Even his name is black.

Well, Lenoir, anyway. Edward wonders if the guy has French ancestry.

Black, black, black, leaning against the wall with his gang of three. They're all revolving around him like he's the sun and they're just rocks in his gravitational pull. If he looked any more bored, he'd be asleep.

_Fucking Goth. What is it about him?_

Is it that huge blue-black bird's nest of dreadlocks? The smudged black eyeliner? Is it the walk that makes him look like he's parting the seas in slow motion? He glides through the halls, a head taller than anyone else, and they all fall out of his way as though he were pushing them away with telekinesis.

_How does he do that?_

Edward walks on, not daring any more glances. He hates being just like the rest of the sheep, staring at the fascinating oddity: Garrett Lenoir, the Goth King of UW.

No sooner does Edward think this than he senses eyes boring into the back of his favorite Bleach t-shirt.

Edward walks on, seemingly oblivious, when inside he's anything but. He'd pay real money to know who's looking at him with so much force that he feels it like a physical shove square between his shoulder blades, the spot red and hot like a burning bullseye.

He looks down at his feet as he skulks away, feeling like he needs to watch his step, like that shove is actual and there's a cliff he might stumble off if he's not careful, with jagged rocks and surf below, ready to swallow him up.

Just before diving into the lecture hall doorway, he shoots his eyes around furtively, looking for the source of the itch that drills right through his clothes. Helpless to stop himself, he glances back again and cops the hazel bullets. Garrett Lenoir's drilling a hole in Edward's head with his eyes. If he stared any harder, there would be smoke.

Stunned, Edward almost bashes into the door frame on his way into the theater, but somehow, the universe cuts him some slack and he makes it in without knocking himself out in front of everyone, bar a painful whack with his shoulder. He hisses and clutches it like he's trying to keep the pain from flying out in zig-zaggy thunderbolts, then gets the hell inside and out of sight, feeling like the world's biggest tool.

In the lecture theater, he takes his usual seat by the aisle, almost in the back row. He likes this one for the little horned demon drawings that adorn the backs of the seats in black Fineliner and pen. Edward doesn't know who made them, but he likes them all the same, and they keep him company in the dark of this cave. He has even added a couple, a little goblin here and an ogre there.

He stays near the aisle so that he can pack and run the moment that the lecture is finished without waiting for any droopy half-asleepers to flop the hell out of his way.

Perched in his narrow plastic chair between the podium and the exits above, Edward sets himself up for an hour of relentless droning, then starts playing with his hair. He yanks it and pulls it and flops it around, half-waiting, half-watching, but fully keyed up like he's just drunk four Dr Peppers. He's not at all surprised when his leg begins to bounce. Bounce, bounce. Bouncebounceboucebouce.

From the sidelines he watches the hall fill with various types of disgruntled members of Gen Y, his eyes always returning to the aisle seat a few rows down. To his annoyance, it remains empty, even as the lights are dimmed in preparation for the slideshow that goes with this Art History lecture.

No matter how he tries, Edward can't concentrate on the slides, though he usually loves these kinds of lectures. Sitting with elbows on knees like The Thinker, fidgeting and worrying the fuck out of his scruffy hair, he finds his eyes repeatedly drawn to that hideous orange seat.

Every time he does it he's surprised, like he didn't mean to look there again, but _oh look, Lenoir is still not there._

It sucks all his attention like a ravenous black (orange) hole. Again and again, he comes back to it, and the void in it, like he's just cycling mindlessly, stuck in an orange loop.

The entire lecture flashes by in the blink of an eye while he stares at that stupid, empty chair. For the life of him, he can't remember anything about it at all, and when he looks down at his notes, there aren't any, though normally they'd be meticulous.

All over the page are looping drawings of prehistoric Venus figures, with their great, pendulous breasts and rotund bellies, scratched with enough force to tear the paper.

_Ahh. So that's what the lecture was about. The sacred feminine or... big tits through history or maybe the importance of not having any arms and a giant ass, or something._

When the lights brighten again, Edward remains in his seat, blinking away flash spots on his eyes. Rubbing them with the heels of his palms, he hopes that none of this will be on the finals.

Unsettled, he remains in his seat as the theater empties around him, people dashing for freedom and scattering out through the exits and away from the recycled air, though normally he'd be the first one out. He looks around for the familiar magnetic presence, thinking that maybe Lenoir sat elsewhere today. It would be weird, because he's never done that before. Not that Edward has been watching.

No. Never that.

Trying to look busy, he begins to pack his bag, haphazardly throwing in the notepad and shifting in his seat to encourage circulation in his uncomfortably numb ass.

Silence descends as the place empties and he finally concedes to himself that he's disappointed Lenoir didn't make it to the lecture today. Normally, the inky, thick mop and turned up collar are directly in Edward's field of vision, flanked by his buddies on either side.

It's weird— he was right outside earlier.

Edward knows that he's bordering on obsessed. The guy's like a fucking siren, and Edward doesn't understand why he's so attracted. If Lenoir's presence draws him, the guy's absence has thrown him totally off kilter.

There are plenty of interesting people attending the School of Art. Many of them are like Lenoir- goths dressed in black and velvet, wearing their sixteen-up Docs and their hair down in lank curtains.

Lenoir, though, he's something else. He's hardcore, a storm cloud in everyone's periphery. He wears black, but it's these big, fat-soled combat boots over tight jeans which shouldn't be physically possible to pull on. He wears the long coat but his actually looks like the real thing, like he lives, breathes and sleeps in it. On his head, a formidable nest of jet-black dreads sways with his every movement. Dried white plaster dots and little metal burns pepper his clothes sometimes, and so they should— he's a Sculpture major.

On the inside of all that monochrome though, he's this bright, bright presence, a beacon, a burning pyre. He's like nothing, like no one else.

Edward chews on the end of his pen, hard.

It's weird— it's not like Edward and he are friends. They've never spoken. They move in different circles. Well, Lenoir moves in a different circle with his gang of cronies than Edward would had he a circle to move in, with the exception of the circle of two that he and Rosalie usually form.

She's not here today either, which is why Edward's attention is entirely consumed by the space Lenoir should be occupying. She'd be sending an elbow into his ribs or a stomp to his foot by now, to remind him to get his head out of his ass, but she's sick and hasn't been around campus for a couple of days. Edward's kind of floating without her to ground him in the prosaic.

Edward and Rose met on their first day as freshmen and have been inseparable ever since, immediately recognizing each other in their discontentment.

Edward had looked at her chest and she was immediately on his case, wanting to know where he got off staring at her tits. He said that if she didn't want him to check out her rack, she wouldn't have worn a Breeders t-shirt.

She'd smirked and flipped him the bird, lit up a cigarette, flicked purple-streaked blonde hair out of her face and that was that. Instant best buds. It helps that they aren't attracted to each other, though God knows, she's pretty special to look at, with her strutting walk and those tiny skirts and black Docs she wears.

She's a photography student, a junior like Edward. They have no lectures in common but always find each other around campus anyway. With her, he feels like he's part of something. She's the one who bought him this Bleach t-shirt a couple of years ago after they saw Nirvana at the Paramount together. It's the one that looks like a jam session in negative, heads banging, hair flying.

Today, without her, he's just floating on his own like a stray Rice Krispie in a bowl full of Fruit Loops.

Edward thinks he might be going insane.

_Stupid fucking Goth. What the fuck is wrong with me?_

Edward blinks, realizing that he's alone in the theater. Everyone else has already filed out and the place echoes with emptiness. Every creak of his seat and scuff of his Converse is like a thunderclap in a cavern. He packs away his chewed-up pen, wondering what to do with the rest of the afternoon. He should probably be in the studio, painting, but his head's not in it. He's frazzled. Twitchy.

Hoisting his trusty hessian satchel's leather strap onto his shoulder, he stands to stretch. Rising to full height, he reaches his arms up and yawns. Just as his mouth is at its most cavernous, he catches a movement in the periphery and jumps violently, almost biting off his tongue. Spinning, he locks eyes with the reason for his frazzled state of mind.

Garrett Lenoir is standing uncomfortably close. He's literally right beside him at the end of the aisle.

Of all the people it could have been, it's the guy whose presence leaves him grasping at straws for sentences that string together with sense.

_How long has he been standing there?_

"Jesus! Don't-"

"Sorry, I didn't-"

Edward can't move away, he's trapped by garish orange plastic seats in front and behind and the Goth is blocking the way out of the aisle. He's standing ramrod stiff and confused by the guy's proximity. So much so that his legs begin to vibrate with the tension of being stuck mid-stride.

He tries for 'relaxed', but he's pretty sure that Lenoir can see straight through his '_relaxed_' and right into his '_freaked out_'.

"Don't sneak up on people like that!" he chokes out, pushing his glasses higher up on his nose.

"Sorry, man, didn't mean to," Lenoir says, laughing. It's genuine, throaty and deep. Edward mentally slaps himself for analyzing a guy's laugh.

"I thought you heard me coming," Garrett elaborates.

"Obviously not."

"Obviously," Garrett repeats and so they arrive at an impasse. He's not making eye contact. Rather, he appears to be conversing with Edward's Adam's apple. Edward is tempted to swallow a couple of times just to see if Garrett's eyes bounce along.

"How tall are you?" Lenoir asks offhandedly.

"What? How tall? Um, six-two, I think." A pause. "Um... why?"

Perplexed, he watches the hazel bullets rise and hover intently over his unshaven jaw for a spell, and he finds himself keeping very still, like the guy's a cobra and sudden movements will result in certain death.

Edward's almost holding his breath and trying not to twitch any part of his face until they're actually looking each other in the eye.

_Okay, this is weird. Please look at something else now, _he chants in his head_. I have lost the power to move my neck, so it's up to you, freaky Goth guy. _

Another moment of this and Edward's about ready to start howling like a hysterical hyena.

"I didn't take any notes, if that's what you want." _Where the fuck did that come from? This isn't high school!_

"Nah, man, I don't want your notes."

"What then?"

Garrett seems to consider this. Lazily, he flicks his eyes over Edward's face again, like he's seeing the parts and calculating the sum.

"I need your help with something."

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Walking side by side with the Goth King of UW like it's the most natural thing in the world, is almost _the _most unnatural thing Edward has ever done.

Except for the time he ate a "cookie" that someone gave him at a party and spent the next few hours being a water buffalo.

That was pretty exceptional and entirely not natural.

Much like the goth Garrett Lenoir and grungy Edward Cullen being seen together, as they walk to the Ceramic and Metal Art building studios.

"Help with what?" Edward is suspicious, eyes darting around.

"With a piece I'm working on."

"Oh," he says, wishing for a more imaginative reply.

They walk on in silence, and from under the cover of his floppy hair, Edward looks sideways at the windows they pass, watching their two figures. They're almost the same height, though Lenoir has an inch or two on Edward.

Actually, it might just be his bad posture.

Imperceptibly, Edward tries to walk a little straighter to see. He watches Lenoir take long, easy strides and wishes that he looked more like that when he walks- more like he owns his own body. Instead, he always manages to look somewhat awkward, his version of a loping gait more like a hunched-over shuffle.

He huffs and looks away.

The closer they get to the studio, the more anxious he becomes, though undeniably, he's excited to see the work Lenoir's been making. As juniors, they've seen some of each others' work at the cross-discipline critiques that happen every couple of months, but this is different.

This is Lenoir's inner sanctum, though he shares it with another third-year student, Katrina Denali. Edward's been outside of this room before, but never inside.

He'd sooner be tortured (as long as it didn't involve branding irons, because then he'd squeal in two seconds flat) than admit that a couple of times while working late in his own studio, he'd snuck up here to peek. He'd peered into every tiny rip in the newspaper lining covering the windows trying to see inside, with no success.

Now, finally, here's his chance and he's looking around curiously from the moment Garrett unlocks the door.

Garrett's space is light and airy, with exposed beams above and concrete floors below. All the SoA studios are, really, but this one seems to be graced with just the right aspect to garner all the light through the big windows above eye level without any of the glare of the late afternoon sun. It's kind of bizarre that a guy who's basically black from head to toe suddenly becomes luminous when he steps into a beam of that waning light.

For a moment, Edward is speechless, just eating up the image of Garrett's thick black dreadlocks glowing with a tangerine corona in that dying light. Up close, Edward can see the blond roots at his temple, somehow making Lenoir more human.

On the verge of speaking, his mouth hangs open, any words swallowed up by the static in his brain as he watches the Goth slide his black leather coat from his shoulders, throwing it to a chair, then walk with arms upraised into his hair.

Deft fingers gather up the dreadlocks into a rough and ready ponytail, and Edward hungrily ogles the details, like the narrow hips, and the splash of skin above Garrett's black jeans, the blond down at the small of his back, a few freckles sprinkled across it. The guy's a Schiele drawing waiting to happen: expressive lines and sinewy gauntness, eroticism bordering on the visceral.

Ironically, Edward thinks, even Schiele's voyeuristic viewpoint is reflected in the way he himself is processing this scene.

Inside his head, Edward's already drawing.

Abruptly, he realizes why he's been staring at this guy, seeking him out, gravitating toward him for over a year now.

It's because somehow he'd always known that Garrett had this in him- this... electricity.

Somewhere inside, he'd known that Garrett was the human equivalent of a Lava Lamp. It's like he's been waiting to be switched on so that his beauty and his weirdness could float around each other in one vessel like water and oil, never blending but somehow working.

Of course, there's no way he can ever vocalize this and not sound like a total sap. Edward blinks, and thankfully, Garrett's momentum has carried him beyond the radiance. Out of reach of the sun's embers, he's a man again, albeit a fascinating, frighteningly strange one.

Much like anyone else here, Garrett likes to hang up pieces of inspiration all over his walls. No wonder Edward couldn't see through the windows, the newspaper lining them is actually buried under overlapping layers of postcards, printouts, photocopied book pages and many little prompt sketches. His materials are strewn all over the industrial-looking dusty space; half-completed sketches lying around all over the place, along with various pieces made from metal and clay, just two among many mediums explored through the two and a half years Garrett has attended UW.

Then, there is the current work. Edward blinks.

There are body parts strewn all over Garrett's studio.

It's yellow and orange in here, and the white plaster forms have taken on a creamy, rich tone. Some are assembled into semi-complete figures, but most are just pieces of appendage shaped plaster.

"What are you working on?" Edward asks, a flutter of excitement low in his belly.

"Can I cast you?" Garrett replies.

"Wh-what?" Edward darts his eyes around like he expects to find a subtitle hanging in mid-air to help him understand the question.

"You heard."

Edward stops thinking and looks up into the hazel bullets glaring straight into his eyes.

"I think you're exactly what I need. You'd be perfect," Garrett explains, waving an index finger in a big circle to indicate all of Edward. "You have what I want."

_What you want?_

"And what is that, exactly?"

"You're tall. Good build, not too skinny. Strong."

Edward looks down at himself, then back up to Garrett, wondering if he's being mocked. Looking down again, he holds his arms out a bit, as if to say,_ 'Where?_'

He's wearing his trusty uniform: the usual short sleeves over long ones, jeans with frayed cuffs collecting dirt, well-worn grey Converse with the soles rubbed flat on the outer edge, black-rimmed glasses, floppy, scruffy hair. What the fuck is Lenoir seeing that he's not seeing?

"So, will you do it?"

"What exactly are you-"

Garrett sighs, exasperated. "Look, it's not the House of Wax, alright? I'm not an evil mastermind. You _will _live."

"So you say!"

"Here, look at these. This is what I'm going for. I want to cast you."

Garrett takes up a handful of loose drawings and holds them out for Edward to see. They're pen and ink sketches, planning drawings. Contorted bodies of men and horses, arms held up with fingers clawed, violent and visceral- a study in passion.

"This is what you're making?"

"Yeah."

"Pretty awesome." It is, really. It's fucking awesome. If Lenoir pulls this off, this gothic, fractured, industrial Horseman of the Apocalypse will be riding into the UW exhibition space at Sandpoint, at the end of the year in time for assessment.

"So what do you think?"

Edward looks up to see the day's last embers make a halo of Garrett's hair. He says the first thing that comes to mind.

"When do we start?"

.

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**A/N:** Thank you for reading. Good? Bad? Indifferent? This is a story in three parts, to be posted over the next few days.


	2. Pitch

**A/N:** Wow. So people like Garrett, huh? Who knew.

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The campus is mostly deserted over the spring break. Edward lopes over to the studios, still unsure if he's a tool for agreeing to this.

He can't explain his fascination with Garrett, as he's begun to call him in his head, instead of just 'Lenoir', and has a vague idea that his eagerness might be misconstrued but can't find it in himself to care much.

Even Rosalie, seeing the determination in his face, hasn't really questioned him, though he has confided in her about his upcoming part in Garrett's planned sculpture.

She'd just looked at him searchingly, smiled her little smug grin and left it at that, though Edward lost a little sleep wondering about that smugness.

Following his instinct, he's curious and excited about Garrett's work. He wants to be involved.

Edward's hair falls into his eyes, stirred by the breeze as he rounds the studios.

There are a couple of people milling around, either very dedicated or very behind and making up for time spent being stoned by working over the break.

He passes them with brief acknowledgment, excited and anxious for what he's about to do.

He stops at the entry to Garrett's studio and listens to the music blasting through the crack under the door. He's got no idea what it is, but it's intriguing, just like everything else about Garrett.

He opens the door a crack, and looks inside being as quiet as he can, the natural observer and artist in him hoping to catch Garrett in an unguarded moment.

The volume of the music masks his entry, and he slides inside, closing the door behind him.

Garrett hasn't noticed him yet, so Edward stands by the door, just looking around the place, getting familiar. The weird urgency of spying on the guy is gone now that they've actually spoken, and in its place the anxious curiosity morphs into fascination.

Apocalyptic music fills the studio and Edward looks over to the CD player for the cover. _Fields of the Nephilim_. Unsurprisingly, he's never heard of them.

Garrett still hasn't noticed him. He's cutting strips of Plaster of Paris in preparation for their sitting today, buckets of cold water already waiting.

Edward swallows dryly, watching Garrett's arms as he works. He's rolled his sleeves up past his elbows and the fine hair on his arms is so fair that it glints like gold thread in the sunlight.

Garrett's coat is hanging over a chair and he's wearing a close-fitting black (no shit) t-shirt and jeans and at first, Edward thinks, '_I wish I looked that cool'_, but almost immediately, his thoughts change to some kind of weird holding pattern where nothing makes sense and no rules apply. At least none that he can recognize.

Garrett's dreadlocks are pulled up into a messy, knotty bun-thing at the top of his head and the ends are jutting sharply into every direction- it's the coolest thing Edward has ever seen. He watches them bounce stiffly along as Garrett nods to the music, then can't help but follow the movements down to where Garrett's thigh flexes rhythmically, his black boot tapping the floor. He's oblivious and gorgeous, and... hold up. _What?_

Before Edward has time to process these thoughts and panic over them, Garrett turns, sees him, and breaks into a wide smile. It's the kind that's all white teeth and dimples, and Edward forgets what the hell he was going to panic about.

"Hey, Ed! I thought you'd changed your mind."

Remarkably, Edward doesn't cringe at this contraction of his name.

"Oh yeah, I totally did. Couldn't leave you in the lurch though, so... you know. Here I am."

_Liar_.

More like, '_I couldn't wait because... I don't know why and now you're calling me 'Ed' and though I usually hate that, I fucking like it._'

At once pleased and anxious that they're alone, Edward vaguely wonders about the gang of three that usually congregates around Garrett.

"Are your buddies working through the break, too?" he asks, hoping that he doesn't sound too invested, though he can see his own desperation hanging above his head like a giant exclamation mark- all rosy pink and hopeful.

"Nah, man, just me."

Relieved, Edward comes into the studio and makes himself comfortable (like that's possible), or as comfortable as nervous nausea will allow. Soon, they're chatting about this and that, and he's openly admiring work that he'd never seen close-up. The great knots under his ribs relax somewhat, and he feels like he can breathe a little without the anxious stabbing tension.

In the meantime, Garrett has finished cutting strips and is now watching Edward, and waiting.

"Are you ready?"

"Sure."

"So as I said last time, we'll start off with something easy: your arm. See if you're OK with it."

"Sounds good."

"Did you decide to shave?"

Edward nods, suddenly a little itchy where the hair on his arms used to be. It's not that there is a lot of it, but he's never shaved it off before, and it feels weird. Naked and sensitive. He scratches at his arm absently.

Garrett had suggested that it was an option to shave body hair prior to casting and since Edward's a novice, he's taking the road of least resistance, imagining that the pain of removing hair along with the plaster later would be eye-wateringly excruciating**.**

Suddenly a little shy, he turns away from Garrett, grabs his sweatshirt by the back of the neck and yanks it over his head. It takes his t-shirt with it, the latter riding up his back until it's bunched up over his shoulder blades. Freeing himself of the sweatshirt, he thinks he can sense Garrett's eyes on his back, but when he straightens his t-shirt and turns back, Garrett's at his task, a little frown of concentration on his face.

Trying not to feel self-conscious, Edward studies the image of the arm position that Garrett wants to cast.

Garrett wordlessly hands him a jar of Petroleum Jelly, then turns away to fetch the plaster strips and Edward fights the shit-eating grin and dumb jokes that immediately come to mind.

_This is Serious Art Business, goddamnit, keep a lid on that shit._

He takes the jelly and spreads it over his arm in big dollops, forming a barrier which will make it easy to remove the cast, while (hopefully) preventing him from being flayed alive.

He arranges his arm and hand into the right position and braces it with bundled cloth to keep it at the right angle. The first moistened strip goes onto his skin with a satisfying slop, and he watches the plaster-infused muslin soften as Garrett smooths it onto his skin. His hands fly deftly over Edward's arm, building layers, then dunking and slopping, again and again, until his arm is an off-white, bandaged paw.

It feels like only a few minutes to complete the bandaging, and then, just as Garrett said, the application sets off a chemical reaction so the plaster begins to heat up. It's like wearing a warm gauntlet, weird but not entirely unpleasant. He can feel it begin to harden over the next half hour, while he and Garrett chat about the music they're listening to and the imports he gets from the UK and whatever else Edward can think of to keep the guy talking. He finds he really likes the sound of his deep and husky voice, and unexpectedly raucous laughter.

He watches the bundled-up dreadlocks sway with Garrett's movements and wonders what they feel like to touch. The sinewy muscles of Garrett's forearms roll under his skin as he works, and Edward watches them, too, even while he's saying things like, "Yeah, I really liked their sound before Frusciante left," and "Uh-huh, guitar and piano, but I haven't played piano for a while."

It dawns on him that Garrett's asking just as many questions as he is, and he likes it in the same strange way that he likes being here at all and getting to scratch at the surface of the enigma that is the Goth King of UW.

Not that Garrett will ever know that this is how Edward sees him.

"Alright, keep your arm steady and I'll try not to sever it," Garrett says once the cast is cured, as he comes at Edward brandishing a pair of scissors. He grasps Edward's plaster-covered arm and inserts the scissors between plaster and skin, beginning to open a seam which will enable Edward to wiggle his arm and hand out of the mold.

As he bends over his task, Edward's nostrils flare discreetly at Garrett's scent. He's so near that it's unmistakable: incense and good, clean sweat. Edward thought that the studio smelled like sandalwood but now he knows that the scent comes directly from Garrett's skin and his clothes. He'll never think of that fragrance as personifying a hippy bong shop again because now it's the scent of Garrett Lenoir's skin and that is A-OK with Edward Cullen.

As the cast comes off, he wiggles his fingers, feeling the grit of plaster between them. Garrett takes the cast away, looking inside it, this way and that, humming his approval.

"This is good! Really good, man."

"Yeah, it wasn't too bad," Edward offers weakly, stretching his hand and watching Garrett's intent expression as he inspects the cast.

The small physical distance between them suddenly feels like a chasm, and Edward's nausea returns.

Abruptly, it dawns on him that when Garrett's lithe hands fan out over his cast-arm, his stomach clenches as though they were fanned out over his real arm.

When Garrett braces himself over his desk to study his drawings, Edward's blood heats up in the pit of his stomach and at the pulse of his throat.

And when he puts his weight on one long leg and bows his back _just like that_, Edward feels scared and excited, freaked out and curious all at once.

"So what do you think? Can you handle the rest?" Garrett's hazel eyes are drilling into his head again, and the answer is right there on the tip of his tongue. He lets it slip off as naturally as dew from a leaf.

"Definitely. Let's do this."

They spend the rest of the afternoon casting a couple of different versions of Garrett's vision for the arms of his sculpture, and when hunger finally drives them out into the world, Edward's exhausted.

"Legs tomorrow," says Garrett as he locks up. "Unless you can't make it?"

"I'll be here," he replies, already yawning. He's halfway home before he stops dead on the sidewalk, realizing that tomorrow he'll stand in front of Garrett without any pants on.

.

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It takes all week to cast the different parts of Edward that Garrett needs, and in that time, they both grow more relaxed in each other's company. At least, that's how Edward thinks Garrett sees it.

For his part, Edward is anything but relaxed. Every time he arrives at the studio is like the first time, except with butterflies to accompany the nausea, and a quiet desperation that aches and gnaws at his insides like a hungry rat.

He can't really deny it to himself anymore. He's attracted to Garrett Lenoir.

It's disconcerting. Edward has never been attracted to a man before. He's kissed girls, hell, slept with a couple. And he liked it. This is definitely new.

Somewhere inside, a voice says _I didn't raise you to be one of them_, but he ignores it.

But it's not guys in general. Nobody before this.

It's just..._ Garrett_.

The leg casts went well, and four molds that (on the inside) match Edward's legs are now resting under Garrett's desk, waiting for be used. At home in his laundry hamper, Edward's favorite and best pair of boxer briefs await washing day with plaster speckled all over them.

Garrett told him to wear old things that could be thrown out, but he just couldn't do it, couldn't show up to the studio in a tatty old pair of boxers.

_Never mind being run over by a bus_, Edward thinks, _you must always wear nice underwear when someone's about to have their face near your dick_.

Luckily, the discomfort of keeping his thigh muscles constantly taut, a monster calf cramp and being encased in hard, itchy plaster kept Edward's mind off of the fact that Garrett spent most of that day on his knees in front of him, rubbing that shit into his legs.

For his part, Garrett seemed very intent on not making eye contact, just going about his business almost mechanically. _Probably not to make me feel self-conscious_, Edward thinks.

The mantra of "_be professional, be professional_", soon made way for "_hurting now, hurting now_" until it became a loop of "_are we done yet, are we done yet_", and he was far too busy keeping himself occupied to thrill over the visual.

He did, however, take it home with him for further study.

Yes, at home, in the comfort of his bed, Edward thought long and hard about the intent, determined look on Garrett's face as he rubbed (plaster into) his thighs with large, agile hands.

He gave that visual his full attention.

Twice.

Edward can't remember the last time he was that turned on, and back-seat high school fumblings with girls feel a hundred years away from this desperate, heady feeling.

Now here he is again the next morning, trying desperately not to look too interested, too fascinated. Not like he's hanging on every gesture and every glance, even though he really is.

He opens the door to more music he's never heard before, something he's become used to by now. Garrett looks up and smiles and all these things buzzing around in Edward's head just fall away.

Garrett's tall and lean in his usual black on black, but it's warm today, and instead of the usual long sleeves rolled up to the elbows, Garrett's arms are bare and a black tank stretches tautly over a broad and hard torso, tapering to a narrow waist. Edward swallows, staring at the hypnotizing stretch of ropey deltoid muscle as it rolls from shoulder to pectoral under Garrett's fair skin.

He's tied his crazy dreads up again, and they're perched on top of his head in coils of black, messy rope, the pointy ends stabbing at the air in spiky tentacles. It's fucking awesome.

Edward observes him quietly for a moment as he sets clean newspaper over the floor of the studio in preparation for their casting today, the sinew and muscle of Garrett's biceps and forearms flexing with every movement. His shoulders are broad, strong, the dip between his collarbones pronounced.

Edward could watch him move like this for days, just owning his space, owning himself. He does everything with a certain innate confidence. It helps that he's fucking hot, but even if it weren't for the strength of his features, his presence alone would command attention.

He certainly has all of Edward's attention.

And then, he speaks, and a bucket of cold water is thrown over Edward's very nice thoughts.

"So I was wondering if you were up for doing a face cast today."

"Oh," Edward replies, his mouth devoid of words in English.

Garrett studies him carefully.

"No?"

"Ah..."

Garrett walks over and stops within arm's reach. "It might help if you actually, you know, speak," he says, concerned and curious.

Edward stiffens, thinking fast. If he comes clean now and tells Garrett that he's terrified of suffocation, the guy will no doubt understand- he'll be great about it. The moment that this happens though, their easy studio sessions will end. Worse, Garrett might find someone else to pose for his molds.

Or, Edward could say nothing.

He could try it and hope for the best, which under the circumstances would be not actually suffocating. Then, they could continue for as long as it takes Garrett to get all the pieces of Edward that he needs, and Edward would get as much of Garrett as he can grasp with both hands and carry off into his underground lair. Or bed. Whatever.

What actually comes out is, "Sure, why not," and then he's making himself comfortable with a slightly forced smile on his face. Garrett claps him on the back and begins to prepare his materials.

"I've got some alginate for this- plaster's too dangerous to use directly on the face. Heats up too fast and it's a bit unpredictable. Wouldn't want to ruin your pretty face," Garrett says, not looking up from his preparations. "I've brought in a roll-up camping mattress. This will probably be easier if you're lying down."

Edward can see that Garrett's already set up the thin mattress, which kind of looks like a yoga mat. It's covered with newspaper, ready to go.

He sits on it and winces, newspaper crinkling and crackling underneath. This won't be fun - the mattress is so thin that he might as well be lying directly on the concrete floor of the studio. Edward begins to undo the buttons of his flannel shirt, trying not to freak out. He can do this- he already trusts Garrett to look after him.

Throughout this whole process, the guy's been nothing short of accommodating, ensuring that Edward's comfortable at every step. This is no different. Maybe he'll just ask Garrett to go slow so that-

He stops overthinking when he notices that Garrett's eyes are trained on him as he strips down to his t-shirt- the hazel bullets are back and they're drilling right through his armor. Garrett drops what he's doing and advances, coming to a stop right in front of Edward who's sitting cross-legged on the thin mattress.

He kneels next to him and reaches for Edward's face. Edward's heart is about to squeeze itself through the lattice of his ribcage while he tries to sit motionless, not understanding what's happening.

Gently and slowly, Garrett grasps the plastic arms on either side of Edward's face and removes his glasses.

"Fucking hell," he mutters under his breath as he sets them aside.

"What?"

Garrett sits back on his haunches, staring intently at Edward's face again, but this time, his expression is less assessing and more surprised. He's kneeling so close that Edward's nose twitches as Garrett's scent strikes a match inside him.

"Edward. Dude. Do you even need to wear those?"

"Yeah," Edward replies, perplexed. "I'm near-sighted." Technically, he could wear contacts, but there was this picture of Cobain in Rolling Stone once, and the guy's wearing glasses just like these, heavy black rimmed and retro-looking.

"Right. So you can't see things far away."

Edward nods and swallows hard as Garrett continues to stare.

"But you can see things up close," he says, his gaze unwavering and direct right into Edward's eyes.

"Yeah," Edward mutters, "Up close, I can see everything."

Garrett's eyes are the color of toffee. They're so warm, such a contrast to the hardness of his acutely angular, masculine body and the stark black of his clothes, his blue-black hair. Edward studies them like an astronomer, as though mapping the path of an ancient comet with fascination and wonder. He realizes that Garrett is mapping him at the same time. Toffee glides over his face like liquid, looking like want. Looking how Edward feels.

The smudged black eyeliner defines the shape of Garrett's eyes while it soots up his lashes, making them even warmer, complementing them like a well-chosen frame enhances a picture. They're beautiful eyes, and looking right into them is like stepping off a cliff.

Garrett smiles, with his mouth and his toffee eyes, and two things immediately become very clear to Edward.

Firstly, he's absolutely positive that he's attracted to Garrett Lenoir. Granted, he might have conceded this to himself before, but now there's no taking that shit back, mainly because of the second thing that has also become very clear.

The second thing is that something is astir in Edward's pants and he's going to need to think of dead kittens and rancid zombies in order to get through this day with any kind of dignity, because nerdy, grungy Edward is hard for the Goth King.

Fucking shit fuck.

Just as slowly as he took off his glasses, Garrett brings up his large hand and slides his fingers through Edward's hair, pushing it from his face.

"Fucking hell," he repeats, and the look on his face is best described as conflicted. "You really hide under there, don't you?"

_What? Is that a... is that a compliment? _Edward's brain isn't working with Garrett's overwhelming presence this close to him- it's a toffee miasma that sets his skin tingling and his guts dropping like a rollercoaster car.

"Very convincing disguise, too. Who knew," Garrett continues softly.

Edward has no words. He might have forgotten how to speak. All he has is a handful of half-removed shirt in his clenched fist and an A grade boner in his pants, and he can't do a thing with either of them.

Garrett blinks, withdraws his hand and sits back, breaking the spell as abruptly as he wove it.

"Alright. So, we're gonna need to put some conditioner in your hair and your eyebrows to make it easy to get this stuff off after."

"Right," Edward rasps in an alien voice, trying to be cool when all he feels is scalding heat in the pit of his stomach. He bunches that flannel shirt in his lap until it's a shield.

Garrett hands him a bottle of some cheap brand conditioner and instructs him to rub it through his hairline, which Edward does with slightly shaking hands as Garrett prepares the alginate.

"Lie back, this won't take long," he says as he begins to mix the alginate. "I'm just gonna slop it onto your face and push it around a bit." He looks up to make sure Edward's listening. "It takes about ten minutes to do that and for it to set, then I'm gonna put some plaster strips on top of it to make a hard shell on the outside."

"OK," Edward replies, still not quite believing that he's about to do this. The anxiety associated with having his face smothered in blue, prosthetic grade casting gloop is quickly getting rid of his 'other problem', and he finds he can set his shirt aside and lie down within a few moments. The thin mattress isn't so bad once he's on it, and he tries to relax. Garrett gives him two cut-down straws to insert into his nostrils, and he just stares at them, knowing they're about to become his flimsy, plastic lifeline.

Garrett comes to kneel next to the mat with his bucket of alginate and his hands are already in there, kneading and squelching away.

"We gotta work fast here, man, this stuff goes off quickly. No time to waste."

Edward just nods, his eyes on Garrett's hand, buried in the blue gloop up to his wrist. He puts straws in his nose and knows that this time, he definitely looks like a total tool.

He takes a deep, even breath and closes his eyes, just as Garrett begins.

He works fast, slopping the blue stuff onto Edward's face and working it in with his fingers, though it appears to want to slide off as soon as he puts it down. It goes on warm, unlike the plaster strips which had to be dunked in cold water, and it's not exactly unpleasant, just a weird, lumpy sort of face mask or something.

Edward's fascinated with the way that Garrett's fingers coax and rub the stuff into the creases and hollows of his face. It's weird over his eyes and lashes, feeling thick there, and unpleasantly heavy. The reality begins to set in- now he can't open his eyes or even his mouth to communicate.

The straws feel weird, and he's tempted to twitch his nose to see if he can move them around a bit. The alginate doesn't warm up the same way that plaster does as it sets, but he can feel it becoming slightly harder and less globulous by the minute even as Garrett works it in. He covers all of his face up to the hairline and extends down to his throat and Edward does his best to concentrate on Garrett's hands on his skin rather than the suffocating sensation he fears.

"Alright," Garrett says, "I've managed to get a layer on, so now I'm going to build it up a little bit, okay?"

Edward gives him the thumbs-up. So far, so good. Kind of.

As the thickness builds up though, he begins to feels disconnected, disembodied. After a few minutes, he can't feel Garrett's fingers anymore, only a vague pressure, and the vibration of plaster strips being applied to the outside of the alginate cast.

Garrett's talking to him, keeping up a steady flow of words for Edward to focus on, but he just can't, it's impossible.

The world becomes compressed down to the pressure on his face. Edward is concentrating so hard on not freaking out that he begins to tap his fingers over his chest in an anxious tattoo, something to focus his attention and to calm him.

It's not working.

He begins to pinch the fabric of his t-shirt between his thumb and fingers, rubbing the cotton anxiously, compulsively.

He can feel and hear Garrett working fast and that's good, the sooner this comes off, the better. It's beginning to get hot under there, not because the stuff is hot, but because Edward's starting to sweat. A ball of anxiety has worked itself up into his throat and he can't swallow properly, nausea starting to rise.

Suddenly, he realizes that he can't seem to pull enough air in through those fucking stupid straws, and that's it.

He's done.

Breath thunders through his nose, but he can't get enough air, can't suck in enough oxygen. The straws vibrate with the effort of Edward trying to suck air through them and they're starting to hurt.

His hands fly up to his face to tear off the cast, but Garrett's hands are there, too, and he intercepts Edward before the cast can be damaged.

"Easy, man, easy!" he mutters in his deep, husky voice. "It's ok! Breathe easy, Ed, it's ok, you're ok..."

He grips Edward's anxious hands and forces them away, wrestling them to himself and holding them there, clenched fists and all.

Edward is shocked into stillness when Garrett begins to rub calming circles into his palms while holding them to his body. He can feel the warmth of Garrett's hard chest radiating through the cotton of his tank.

Garrett's hands are rough and dirty, covered in plaster and alginate, and it's amazing and real and somehow their touch is making him feel better. Stiffly, he opens his hands a little and allows Garrett to massage them, actively trying to control his breathing while Garrett talks him down from his panic attack.

"Only another couple of minutes until it's ready to come off. Just a couple of minutes, Ed, hang in there," he chants, while his hands rub and explore Edward's. He's not rubbing them frantically now, but gently and curiously, like he's getting to know them.

Slowly over the knuckles and between them, then firmly over the palms and callouses, Garrett's hands massage Edward's with sure confidence. He concentrates on that feeling instead of the panic he feels inside but, soon enough, what started as reassurance turns into something else.

A layer of electric blue floats and zaps between his skin and his bones, turning him into a fully charged battery.

A whole different kind of stress begins to manifest itself within him as Garrett leans in close to Edward's ear, murmuring "It's alright," and "I'm still here," in that sexy, low voice that brings to mind words like _sweat_ and _hot_ and _oh God_.

Garrett's thumbs seem to be making their way over Edward's wrists now, and they're becoming gentler, lighter while burning great furrows into his skin like a UFO knocked out of orbit and plowing straight into the earth.

Every hair on Edward's body stands on end as Garrett's reassuring rubbing begins to turn into light caresses, drawing feathery fingers over veins at Edward's wrists and inner forearms.

Unable to see, Edward simply tries to feel everything, and miss nothing.

He relaxes his hands and opens them up like flowers to the sun, hoping that Garrett will understand.

He does.

Pressing at the pulse points and following the road of Edward's veins, he continues to slowly and lightly map the surface of his arms, murmuring those same low and breathy reassurances all the while.

Holding Edward's wrist in one hand, Garrett slides the other all the way to Edward's elbow, closing his hand around it, feeling, exploring the crease at the inner.

Eventually, the urgency fades, and what started out as frantic, now becomes soothing.

Edward's so busy thinking about Garrett putting his hands on him that he forgets to freak out and soon, Garrett's lifting off the cast, straws and all, which comes easily away from his face as he sits up a little.

"There you go. Are you alright?" Garrett's asks, concerned.

Edward scrubs his face with the heels of his gritty palms, feeling pretty stupid for freaking out. He opens his eyes gingerly, squinting at the sudden brightness.

"Yeah, sorry. Just lost it for a minute. I'm good."

He looks down at himself and is grateful he's wearing a crappy t-shirt today because it's speckled with blue and white, but Garrett's even worse for wear. His black tank is soaked and covered in plaster, big white smears of it across his chest and stomach where he'd held their grasped hands.

"Nah, man, it's alright. It's a weird sensation, I know." Garrett flicks his hand to some photos on the wall, and Edward notices that one of them is of someone having their face cast, the same way he'd just been.

"That's me. Katrina did the casting. She took so fucking long that we had to start again because the alginate started to set before she was anywhere near done. It sucked ass."

Edward gives him a grin, grateful that he knew to hurry it up. "Thanks, man."

"Do you want to go clean up?"

"Yeah," he replies, still a bit shaken. Cold water on his face will feel great after this, and help him process Garrett's touch, which still burns at the crease of his elbow and along the veins that carry his hot blood.

In the bathroom nestled between the studios, he stares at his newly scrubbed face in the mirror, picking specks of blue off his eyebrows and hair. Edward hardly ever looks at himself in this appraising way, but everything is different today. His own face stares back at him wearing a stranger's expression.

He looks flushed, roses blooming high on his cheeks the way they used to when he was a fresh-faced teenager, before he started growing facial hair. His eyes are so bright that they're almost glowing.

He turns the tap and puts his head as far as he can under the faucet, laying it awkwardly in the sink to wet his hair. It's frigid, his breath is shocked into shallow, fast puffs at the freezing water meeting his scalp and neck. Turning it off, he stands and shakes his head out like a dog, feeling suddenly, amazingly awake.

He braces both hands on the basin and allows the giddiness to have him.

The ridiculous smile on his face doesn't seem big enough for the nervous excitement lodged in his chest.

There's this bright yellow feeling expanding under Edward's diaphram that whispers '_he feels it, too'_.

.

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><p>.<p>

**A/N:** Thanks for reading! Feel free to let me know what you think, won't you?


	3. Promise

**A/N:** This chapter marks the end of the ficlet I wrote for Mostly A Lurker's fundraiser. I hope you enjoy!

Special thanks to my WC girls, and especially to BoydBlog, for keeping me company in day-long WCs while I worked to get this done on time. Above and beyond, BB! Thank you.

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><p>.<p>

Flushed and grinning, Edward makes his way back to the studio. His mind feels like a carnival ride; his thoughts are bumper cars bouncing off the walls of his cranium without having the slightest impact.

They smash around aimlessly in there, not making any sense.

He looks up at the sky, the walls of the Art School, the birds in the trees, but all he can see is black, black, black.

He registers the breeze on his face and the crunch of gravel underfoot but all he can feel is gritty palms holding his hands, rubbing calm and reassurance into his clammy, panicking skin.

Music filters down from the studio but Edward only hears the rushing hum of his own blood, storming his veins.

Standing outside the studio, he hesitates. To bluster in or to tiptoe?

In the end, he settles for opening the door quietly, hoping for another unguarded moment.

He's in luck.

Garrett is over by the CD player, having just pressed 'play' on something harsh and industrial.

He's on that spot again- the X that marks touchdown for the beam of afternoon sun which lights him up like a dark beacon.

He stands there, all lean limbs and acute angles, looking like the coolest supernova absorbing all the light from surrounding space.

The sun's dancing in his hair again, making a mockery of that dark Goth exterior as it paints him with a soft tangerine halo.

Seemingly aware of the warmth, Garrett inches a little backward to stand directly in the sunlight and Edward's drawing in his head again, because the man is striking.

Agile fingers gather and bundle dreaded hair into its signature messy bun, and Edward watches them flex as he shapes it.

The orange sun has turned Garrett's black dreadlocks into a glowing crown of fire, the thick, stiff ends piercing air like lightning.

Below it, his fair Gallic skin glows, too, as he seeks out the heat of the sun.

Edward watches hungrily as those lithe fingers catch the bottom of the dirty black tank and begin to lift, rolling the fabric over narrow waist and a broadening back.

Strength ripples, stirring muscle under the skin, adorned with a splash of tiny freckles over Garrett's shoulder blades and neck.

Having pulled the tank over his head, Garrett bundles it and uses it to wipe his wet stomach and chest.

Holding it in his fist, he braces his arms on the bench and rolls his head from side to side, stretching as short wisps of blond hair at the nape of his neck stir with the movement.

Edward can suddenly imagine his own mouth right there on Garrett's fair skin, kissing, breathing, panting. A searing flush makes his stomach clench at this erotic vision, and he's never been less confused.

He watches, transfixed by his own fantasy, as Garrett's shoulders flex and stretch over his naked, bowed back.

Edward inches closer until he's just a few feet away, close enough to chart the constellations of freckles on Garrett's shoulders.

"Are you gonna stand there all day?" Garrett says huskily and looks over his shoulder.

Edward almost jumps out of his skin as the Goth King turns to face him, suddenly much closer than Edward had anticipated.

They're face to face and close enough for Edward to see the gypsy liner smudged like kohl under Garrett's toffee eyes and the delicious curve of his pink upper lip, adorned with glistening blond stubble.

Completely on impulse, he quickly leans in and kisses Garrett on the lips.

_Oh God._

Roaring silence.

One chaste, hard peck, nothing more, but it's enough for the world to stop and the breath to seize in Edward's lungs.

He hasn't completely moved away, and in that suspended moment, he seeks out Garrett's beautiful toffee eyes, equally hopeful and shocked at his own boldness.

The scalding heat of embarrassment begins to creep up Edward's insides as Garrett stands unmoving, regarding him calmly.

His nerves burn in shame as he begins to think that has made a fundamental, catastrophic mistake.

Edward's eyes dart between Garrett's, until the courage leaks out of him and the enormity of what he just did washes through his veins in icy swells.

He just kissed _a guy_.

He just _kissed _Garrett Lenoir.

As blood drains from his face, Edward prepares to make lame excuses and run, run the fuck away from his own stupidity, maybe dunk his head underwater somewhere for approximately three years, or until the shame of this washes-

_Oh God. Breathe._

Garrett raises his hand and lightly touches the pulsing heartbeat at Edward's throat, silencing his thoughts, wiping his mind like a whiteboard.

His cool fingers graze Edward's jaw and the lobe of his ear, electrifying his whole body with barely a touch.

His large hand becomes a cradle as he splays his fingers over the back of Edward's skull, under his messy, damp hair.

So slowly, so very deliberately, Garrett closes his eyes and inclines toward him.

Then, he kisses Edward back.

Properly.

Reveling, deliberating, hard landing with his soft lips, he kisses Edward's slightly open mouth with beautiful, precise abandon.

Edward stands unmoving, a red-headed, pink-cheeked stone statue, afraid to breathe.

His stomach drops with delicious abruptness, an epiphany waiting at the edge of consciousness.

Garrett's pink lips linger on his, determined and unapologetic, opening to him, closing over him. They taste him with agonizing deliberation.

Edward has never felt anything like it, and he opens his eyes so he can see Garrett, see that this is really happening.

With eyes closed and a furrow of concentration between his brows, Garrett is kissing him on the mouth with careful, fixed delight.

Edward's one conscious thought is _he's taking care not to freak me out_. Then, his stomach clenches and he sucks air because he can feel those soft lips slowly parting.

His eyes roll back, and it's an erotic assault as he senses Garrett licking, wetting Edward's top lip with the tip of his tongue.

His conscious thoughts have fled and he stands incoherent as Garrett grows needful, clutching at him with his lithe hands, gathering him closer to take more of his mouth, to caress his tongue.

Sweet torture unrelenting, Edward begins to mimic the soft, deep kisses, until both men are breathless with the passionate torment of new lovers discovering the taste of each other's mouths.

Their hot breaths mingle as they swallow and pant each others' air, lips yielding and soft.

Garrett holds Edward's head still with his gentle hand and kisses him this way and that, working his lips over Edward's like he's eating something so delicious that it's sin and ecstasy all at once.

Edward's stomach feels like it's being pulled from within and he gasps hotly at the delirious sensation of being devoured with such abandon.

Edward has kissed people, but he's never, _ever, _been kissed like this.

He turns his face up to meet Garrett's and dives head first into the sensation, hands seeking the pale skin of Garrett's narrow waist, fingers digging into the sun-warmed flesh.

In answer to this urgency, Garrett's fingers contract, gasping a firm fistful of Edward's hair. Insistent and demanding now, he pulls a little and exposes Edward's throat.

Edward licks his swollen lips and gasps for air as Garrett nibbles and licks his jaw, teeth gently razing over stubble and skin.

"Oh my God," he whispers brokenly as Garrett nuzzles gently right under his ear, and squints his eyes so hard that he sees bursting lights under his lids.

Hot breath engulfs his earlobe as Garrett rasps, "I'm so glad you started this, Edward," and the sound of his name being evoked with such want is enough to make him weak.

Garrett's hands are both in his hair now, thumbs rubbing mindless patterns across his cheekbones while he mouths across Edward's Adam's apple and chin, then returns to his lips, storming them with his urgent, deep kisses.

With one arm encircling Garrett's waist and the other grasping his elbow, Edward gathers and pulls to himself all that he can reach, craving all the hardness of Garrett's lean body against his own and loving the feeling of being wanted, desired.

"I didn't know," he whispers, "I didn't know!" _Didn't know you liked me. Didn't even know I liked you. Didn't know it could feel like this._

He senses the tangerine sunlight on his own skin too, and feels his whole word changing in the blink of a sooty eye and the hard pressing of soft lips.

Desperate to know if he's the only one affected with this ridiculous giddiness, Edward slides his own hand to Garrett's bare chest and finds his living heartbeat.

Incredibly, it pulses as fast as his own, erratic and hot under his fingertips, and Edward smiles against Garrett's mouth, ecstatic.

When at last they part, panting, Edward's eyes devour Garrett up close.

The afternoon summer light radiates over the slope of his fine, straight nose and enhances the crease between his brows when he's really focused on something.

That crease is there right now, Garrett's pupils dilated, the toffee melting into Edward's green, even as he deliberately grinds his obvious hardness into Edward's hip.

"Do you know now?" Garrett asks quietly.

Edward's fingers dance over Garrett's skin, the naked, male torso a completely new sensation- a study in hard and flexing muscle, sinew and bone.

His hand comes to rest at the little hollow just under Garrett's ribs, the centre of his sternum, and he feels like he can touch Garrett's life, right here where his diaphragm forces hot breath to rush up and bathe Edward's skin.

"I'm starting to," he admits, more breath than words.

Knowing he won't be denied makes Edward audacious. His eyelashes brush like wings over Garrett's stubbly skin as he lays strings of light kisses over his face, excited and amazed and so very attracted.

His heart just about bursts through his ribs when he feels the deep rumble in Garrett's chest.

A throaty groan reverberates through them both as Edward fits his whole body to Garrett's and drives them back against the bench, one hand at his nape, the other grasping a handful of the Goth's lean flank.

Edward presses himself back against Garrett's hardness just enough to let him feel how affected he is, too.

Hungrily, he grazes lips with his teeth and sweeps them with his tongue, wanting to taste, to feel Garrett's mouth the way that his own has just been tasted.

With the whole length of his body pressed to the Goth's like a flower to a card, he thrills as Garrett tells him, "I've watched you", and, "wanted you", and, "goddamn it, now I want you even more".

Edward feels like his eyes are full of the sun when he looks at Garrett, lips parted and breathing hard, pushed up against his work bench.

"Me? Wanted _me_?" He's panting like this air is their last, amazed and feeling so desired.

"You think I didn't know? You think I didn't notice you looking at me?" Garrett says around a knowing grin, and Edward can see how transparent he's been, just in that one look, that one quirked eyebrow.

"What did you notice?" he says, somehow making words, when all he wants is more of Garrett's mouth, and not for talking.

Garrett's grin becomes a lazy smile, and it's so wanton and sexy that Edward can't help himself, he sort of slumps against him like a barnacle attached to Garrett's hip and unable to separate himself for the need he feels.

"Intense loner with a good looking beard, colorful hands."

Edward smiles against Garrett's collarbone at his assessment of Rosalie, and wishing he could crawl into the hollow at his throat and live there for ever and ever.

"Colorful hands?" he questions.

Wordlessly, Garrett lifts Edward's hand between them so they're both staring at the callouses and stains of oil paint under his nails and filling the fingerprint whorls with blue, and green, and black.

The image of their dirty, art-covered fingers entwined will be one Edward never forgets.

They smile at each other shyly, like they haven't just been, and in fact still are, pressing themselves against each other and grabbing handfuls of whatever they can reach: hip, thigh, ass.

Edward does what he so often thought of when he had to stay motionless for the process of casting, and, if he's honest, way before that: he takes a handful of Garrett's dreads and palms them, testing and squeezing the thick roughness.

Seeing the want he feels reflected in the warm toffee eyes, he gently pulls to the side and lowers his mouth to lap at Garrett's throat, licking the lobe of his ear and the hollow under his jaw.

Tasting the fragrant essence of salt and sandalwood, Edward knows he's never going to be the same again.

He smiles against damp, salty skin, listening to the sounds of pleasure resounding directly from Garrett's body into his own through their molded torsos.

A new world discovered right here.

Right where he was looking all along.

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><p>.<p>

Fielding curious glances, Edward stays well back of the action at the Sandpoint Gallery, preferring the relative peace of the uncrowded corner.

Watching from the sidelines is still his speciality, though he's not quite the same man as he was just a few weeks ago.

In the heart of the space, Garrett Lenoir contrasts sharply from all around him, black, tall and lean in a sea of moving, pulsing color.

Confident, he stands straight as a poplar amidst visitors, lecturers and students alike, gesticulating almost as passionately as a drama student.

Edward smirks, knowing what Garrett would think of that comparison.

Crossing his arms, Edward leans his shoulder against the wall and watches the way that people flock to Garrett like he's a magnet.

He's so effortlessly cool, everyone wants to exchange a few words and feel like they've connected with the Goth King of UW.

Edward knows how they feel.

A touch on his arm startles him a little from his observation, but he's relieved to see that it's only Rosalie, a wine glass in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other.

"Looks fantastic," she says, inclining her head toward Garrett's installation.

"It's amazing," Edward agrees, and it really is. What he saw as rough sketches and plans has become a larger-than life project, a huge sculpture dominating this clean, neutral space.

Many limbs jut at unnatural angles as this four-headed Horseman comes riding out of the ether to collect the toll of humanity.

Garrett has assembled this amazing organic thing from many different parts- there are ceramic arms drilled through to join with bronze and beaten alloy gauntlets and a massive breastplate with ancient symbols carved into it.

It's masterful and frightening, a wonderfully foreboding figure captured mid-flight as it descends upon the world.

It's Garrett's artistic vision, and he's very passionately discussing its meaning, its existence, with peers and superiors alike.

Some of the plaster casts they'd worked on ended up serving as molds, and Garrett has created impressions in different materials that he has spliced together in this extraordinary creation.

The thing breathes life and movement, and astonishingly, people seem to be realizing that it's wearing Edward's likeness on all four of its faces.

It was worth the effort, though Edward remembers with terrible clarity just how scary it felt to make that particular mold, though that day is burned into his memory for other reasons, too.

It feels like that day Edward woke up.

Rosalie looks bemused at the attention Edward's receiving from people that last week wouldn't have looked at him twice.

Edward has always kept to himself, and though he works hard, he's not a showman.

His work is brilliant, she thinks, but he doesn't try to impress that on others, instead being content to work on his skills, developing a naturally impressive body of work.

She has documented it for him by shooting a set of high-quality slides for his folio, and has seen the beautiful canvases he creates late at night when it's just him and his Walkman in the dim cocoon of his studio.

He's not even aware of the fact that he's quietly respected for his dedication, but she can tell that those same people that flock to Garrett's larger-than-life persona are beginning to notice Edward, too. By association, he's going to find himself more popular soon.

Rosalie has definitely noticed some changes recently, even down to the way he carries himself.

No longer the ambling boy still growing into his Converse, Edward has recently found some equilibrium somewhere, and there's this new confidence about him, an air of determination and of tenacity.

For one thing, he has stopped hiding under his hair, and Rosalie approves of the way he's growing it out, and has begun pulling it back into a messy ponytail.

It's thick and quite striking in color, auburn like fall leaves. Pulled away from his face this way, Edward's bone structure is amazing, Rosalie can't believe she never noticed before, but the angular cut of his jaw and sensual mouth are incredibly sexy.

He's really handsome under there, and for the first time, those glasses don't conceal him, they make him mysteriously alluring.

He's been standing taller, too, and it's not just his posture. There's an air of calm purpose in place of the anxious, furtive skulking.

It hasn't escaped Rose's notice that Edward is now the recipient of interested glances, drawn by his newly found bearing, and unveiled good looks.

"Why don't you go and say hello?" She encourages, waving her unlit cigarette in Garrett's direction.

She knows they've become important to each other in these few weeks, and she's been Edward's quiet confidante, sinking his secrets like weighted stones into bottomless pits.

"It's his moment," Edward replies. For his part, he's quite happy staying where he is. Having slinked in here unobserved, he just wants to watch as people give Garrett his dues.

He's worked damn hard on this piece, and he'll be assessed on it as a part of his final grading in a few weeks.

Edward doesn't want to get in the way; he just wants to watch Garrett socialize, talk, move and be, basking in the well-deserved praise.

"Well, if you don't mind, I want to congratulate him and arrange to take a few pictures. Yes?"

"Sure."

Nodding to a couple of people walking past, Edward breathes in the air of Garrett's success and watches Rosalie tap the Goth King on the shoulder, giving him her brilliant girly smile; the one people fall all over themselves for.

They chat amicably for a few moments, and just as Edward's thinking about leaving, satisfied that the gallery opening is going well, Garrett turns toward him, following the trajectory set by Rosalie pointing her unlit smoke.

_Over there_, she mouths, and Garrett's eyes land on him like a paperweight.

Never taking his eyes off, Garrett barely excuses himself from his present company before he stalks over.

Edward suddenly finds himself standing straight and tall, waiting.

No matter how many times he looks into them, those black-rimmed hazel eyes always have the same effect on him.

They galvanize and stun him, caught as he is under Garrett's spell.

"Hey," Garrett says, smiling. "You came."

"I was in the neighborhood," Edward deadpans.

Garrett smirks, raising goosebumps over Edward's arms.

"What do you think?"

"It's fucking awesome." _You're fucking awesome._

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Edward looks around the room, in part to shake Garrett's unnerving influence. "You're a big hit."

"You too."

Edward snorts.

"No, really! They're all asking me if that's your face."

"What are you telling them?"

"That it's your everything."

Edward laughs, embarrassed and pleased beyond measure that Garrett's not ashamed to reveal his model.

He remembers every moment of the break they spent holed up (making out) in Garrett's grungy, industrial studio, casting (touching, kissing) and making parts of this incredible piece of sculpture.

It's a time Edward will never forget, as long as he lives.

"Come take a closer look," Garrett says, already moving away, and as tempted as he is to walk away from the attention, Edward finds himself following instead.

The gallery has filled up, and quite a few of their peers are standing around, discussing aspects of the religious connotations of the piece, and of the relevance of the four faces, the Four Horsemen, the four seasons represented. He hears _Odin_ and _Brahma_ and _Swiatovid_, _Wicca_, and the names of other pagan Gods who wore four faces. Garrett's work is fostering a lively discussion, and he's stoked to hear it on his friend's behalf.

Ignoring the conversations flying back and forth all around them, Garrett weaves his way through the throng to stand a few feet away from his sculpture.

Beside him, Edward finds himself a little too conscious of the looks thrown their way— taller as they are than anyone else here, so visible even if it weren't for Garrett's magnetic, black presence.

He looks at the sculpture, and admires the juxtaposition between the fine porcelain limbs and the metal armor, the beautifully cast impressions of his own face staring back at him, masculine and angular.

"Cullen, is that you?" a guy exclaims nearby over the noise.

Edward ducks and waves it off, but Garrett smiles and answers, "Yeah, doesn't he make the prettiest harbinger?"

Feeling the blood rush to his face, Edward looks everywhere except at Garrett or at the sculpture, which now seems to be mocking him. _Fucking Jesus_.

Garrett leans in close to his ear and points at his Horseman. "What? You don't think he's pretty?" he teases, his warm breath raising goosebumps over Edward's suddenly clammy skin.

"I guess," Edward hedges, grinning, loving and hating the torment.

The bustle and noise die away as Garrett suddenly maneuvers himself to stand directly in front of Edward's surprised face.

"I think he's fucking gorgeous. Don't you see it?"

Edward's mouth is drier than a tinderbox, and unable to form coherent words at that statement.

Garrett's warm toffee eyes are intense, searching for something within him. They raze over him, igniting that low burning fire deep in his belly that only Garrett's eyes can.

Edward dampens down the shiver that quakes his whole body and tries to remain standing under the deliciously loaded gaze.

He shakes his head infinitesimally, in case some sort of answer (other than just staring at the hottest goddamn guy ever) was actually required of him.

Garrett's eyes widen incredulously, the smudged, black gypsy liner defining them more beautifully than any intricately made-up woman Edward has ever encountered.

He steps a little closer, but Edward holds his ground, even as warm, pale hands grasp the plastic arms on either side of his face and remove Edward's glasses from his face.

_Oh my God._

Edward knows people are watching, but he's powerless to do anything, _anything_, except listen to his own blood beating in his ears like a tidal wave, as Garrett gently blows his warm breath over the lenses of his glasses, and carefully, deliberately cleans them on his tight black t-shirt.

His eyes are still on Edward's as he rubs slow circles into them with his thumb, and as he finally deems them to be clean enough to replace on the bridge of Edward's nose.

He slides them on slowly, tucking a runaway strand of auburn color behind Edward's ear.

Standing too close but not close enough, he quietly says, "Do you see it now?"

Edward glances over Garrett's shoulder at the amazing sculpture.

With its stern, beautiful faces, the elaborate beaten metal gorgets and greaves, the finely turned and glazed porcelain hands all splayed, clawing air or posed as if in the heat of battle, the vision comes to life.

His own face looks back at him in quadruplicate, handsome in the angular, virile way he has only recently discovered.

The one that he sees reflected in Garrett's hazel eyes and in his tight embrace.

Edward's lips quirk lopsidedly as he refocuses on the man standing in front of him close enough for the scent of sandalwood to envelop them both.

A couple of little silver rings adorn Garrett's thick black dreadlocks tonight, reflecting the overhead lights like tiny mirrors.

Oblivious to the shocked gasps all around them, he leans in and kisses Garrett lightly on the mouth.

One chaste, soft peck, nothing more, but it's enough for the world to spin and the breath to quicken in Edward's lungs.

"I'm starting to."

~Fin~

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**A/N:** Thanks so much for reading my ficlet. I hope you liked it, won't you let me know? Cheers, AM


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